


A Little Less 16 Candles (A Little More "Bite Me")

by SnitchesAndTalkers



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: 2005, Biting, Halloween, M/M, Odaxelagnia, Smut, Sort of vampires, That's a biting kink to you and me, Vampires, boys falling in love, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 11:34:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16474775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/pseuds/SnitchesAndTalkers
Summary: Patrick's got this problem. It starts with Pete's mouth and it moves on to Pete's teeth and it ends with Patrick's inappropriate erection.He's got this sneaky feeling Pete is hiding something from him. It's almost definitely time to conduct a little bit of research. You know. For science.





	A Little Less 16 Candles (A Little More "Bite Me")

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween, everyone! Trick or Pete 2018 is in full swing, I hope you guys are enjoying the works that have been posted so far :D
> 
> This... *buries face in hands and looks suitably ashamed* Look! I had a plot and everything, I had it all worked out, it was gonna be super cute. Then I remembered I had about four other projects with incoming deadlines so I - have some porn. I would call this shameless smut, but trust me, I am very ashamed. It goes beautifully with peanut butter cups and the disturbing sense that someone is reading it over your shoulder!
> 
> (If that someone is anyone's parent, I apologise SO HARD.)

Patrick can’t stop staring at Pete’s teeth.

This is problematic on a number of levels but, most problematic of all, is that Pete’s teeth are located in the vicinity of Pete’s _mouth_. Staring at Pete’s mouth is an interesting ride on the direct line to Bonertown and Patrick is (mostly) invested in not sporting an erection on stage or live in the lounge area of this, the tour bus he shares with Pete and two entirely innocent band members who didn’t ask for this.

He’s choosing not to examine this newfound oral fixation too closely. By ‘not too closely’ he means he’s Googled it, checked on Yahoo!, he’s even asked _Jeeves_ – quietly, furtively, under the covers of his bunk. Patrick has found one word over and over from Wikipedia to Fetlife; Odaxelagnia. Experiencing arousal through being bitten. Apparently, it’s a relatively common kink with over fifty-percent of Americans surveyed admitting they experience arousal through biting. Patrick’s still not sure it’s something he’ll be discussing with his family over Thanksgiving dinner.

(Side note: Patrick prays that no one on this bus, this tour, this _lonely blue planet_ has any idea of the password on his laptop and that, if they do, they don’t go scrolling through his Internet history.)

(Second side note: who _are_ these people featured in internet surveys? In which mall, in which godforsaken Midwestern town is someone forced to collect this data outside of a JCPenney’s? “Hello, my name’s Patrick. Can I ask you a few questions about your kinks?”)

But seriously, the teeth are desperately distracting, particularly when Pete tips his head back against the couch, rolls his neck slowly and stares right at Patrick’s mouth, as he slides his tongue over the ripe peach sweetness of his lower lip. Patrick attempts to convince himself – head spinning from proximity – that his groan is inaudible. Pete’s smile says otherwise.

Because Pete is an asshole, he worries the soft, pink tip of his tongue against the gleam of his left canine and then, syrup-slow, he says, “Can I — _help_ you with something?”

The thing is, Pete has been acting strangely lately. Sleeping until mid-afternoon, avoiding daylight and complaining about a garlic allergy that never seemed to bother him the nights they spent eating pizza in Patrick’s mom’s basement. Then there’s the teeth. Look, Patrick considers himself to be a fairly pragmatic dude, far more Scully than Mulder, and it’s probably just his imagination but…

But those teeth definitely seem a little _different_.

It’s bound to be the light, or the fact that Pete’s made him watch the original Buffy movie no less than three times in the past week, but Patrick could swear there’s something _sharp_ about his smile at the corners. This is all speculation. Scientific theory, if you will.

Like, _scientifically_ speaking, if those weird stains on the front of Pete’s shirt _were_ blood (hypothetically) and that blood were (objectively) not the result of Pete getting carried away with his Gillette in the tour bus bathroom, then (technically) Patrick needs to carry out some research. He suspects that he should not be indelicate about this, that there are gentle, probing ways to ask his best-friend-cum-bassist if he’s taken a sharp left in his career choices and become a bloodsucking creature of the night.

There’s almost certainly an article on the internet _somewhere_ about how to deal with this very dilemma.

However, there is a whole chasm of awkward, aching sexual tension and unresolved _feelings_ — that Patrick has been ignoring for half a decade _thank you very much_ — standing between him and the glittering bastion of rapier wit. So, instead of saying something reasonable and logical, Patrick opens his mouth and allows words to vomit onto the couch between them.

“You should bite me,” says Patrick and, because this is scientific and because he may slap Pete if he doesn’t stop grinning like that, he adds, “it’s not a sex thing!” Oh, it is so _totally_ a sex thing. No, wait, it’s a _research_ thing. A not-vampire wouldn’t want to bite him. Specific correlation, _that’s_ what this is. “I — it’s a trust exercise. Purely based on friendship. I’m showing that I — I believe you can bite me without going too far.”

Pete doesn’t move. No, seriously, he _doesn’t move_. Patrick is pretty sure he’s put the pass on breathing and that seems awfully, oh, _reanimated corpse_ of him. The only indication that he’s still alive is the slow, lazy way his smile widens. “Why,” he begins, “would I want to bite you?”

“It’s not that I necessarily think you _want_ to bite me,” says Patrick stupidly. Patrick has been doing many things stupidly over the past few days. “I’m just saying. If you _did_ feel like biting me, I would trust you.”

Patrick would like to petition the representative for the state of Illinois because, if it’s not currently illegal for Pete to stare at his throat like that as he leans way too far into Patrick’s personal space, then it really ought to be made so immediately. “Do you — _want_ me to bite you?”

There are at least two functioning brain cells rattling around in the otherwise empty exhibition center of Patrick’s cerebral cortex. Not enough to form the equation made up of the devastating sultriness of Pete’s lower lip multiplied to the power of the way his bangs fall into the liquid copper his eyes as he blinks. Still, the two of them are sufficient to form the screaming thought _‘don’t reveal the bite kink, idiot’_ with enough voluminous force that Patrick’s own mouth gets the message and remains resolutely snapped shut. He shakes his head weakly.

“You’re a weird kid,” Pete informs him — like Patrick is the one exhibiting empirically vampiric (vampirical?) behavior — climbing to his feet and moving soundlessly through the bus. “Good thing I love you.”

Patrick bites his lip, hard, and considers the wisdom of another session on Google.

*

Patrick is trying very hard to organize his thoughts. He’s created a list, scrawled in his worst handwriting, in a notebook he hides at the bottom of his bunk under a pile of post-stage underwear sweaty enough to deter even the most committed of thieves. He lists them, his thoughts, into two distinct categories; Brain Thoughts and Penis Thoughts.

He never imagined he would stoop this low.

His Brain Thoughts are the ramblings of a madman, Renfield feeding flies to spiders to birds in his asylum cell, worryingly poetic and caught on the way Pete’s eyes glow when he smiles. His Penis Thoughts are less insane but far more lowbrow: Pete’s mouth, Pete’s mouth, Pete’s _mouth_.

So, when Pete does something obnoxious, like licking Patrick’s microphone during soundcheck, leaving it thick with the smell of ranch Doritos and — honestly, Patrick isn’t making this up — something sort of _coppery_ , well. Patrick’s rejoinder of _‘bite me’_ is a little too breathy to be entirely casual. If Pete notices, he doesn’t say anything. This is not Pete-like in and of itself.

And, later, when they’re playing live and loud, Patrick _wants_ to enjoy it. In any other moment, he might marvel at the way the venue rings with their music and glows with their set lights, at the way a couple thousand sets of syncopated lungs roar their words like an anthem up into the nosebleeds. But that’s another moment. A stolen, stuttered heartbeat of time when he isn’t staring across a stage stained with last night’s dust and tonight’s sweat and the neon-bright smears of the guts of a glow-stick Pete spat across the boards.

Maybe he’d be able to appreciate it if Pete didn’t — unprompted, unasked for and entirely unwarranted — lean in close during Dance Dance and _bite_ into the soft pocket where Patrick’s throat meets his shoulder. This isn’t the usual stage gay, this is biting with intent, friendly fire that bolts liquid heat directly to the sudden throb of Patrick’s hopelessly inappropriate, live on stage and for one night only, frankly _magnificent_ erection.

Thank _God_ for low-slung guitars.

Patrick doesn’t want to become known for popping boners in front of five-thousand people at a time. He has a mother who’s proud of him and a grandma who, occasionally, watches their videos on YouTube. But, right now, sporting a raging hard-on that’s eighty-percent arousal and twenty-percent awful decisions, all he can do is scowl at the back of Pete’s head and plan retribution in the form of pissing all over Pete’s bunk.

Across the stage, Pete smiles.

His teeth catch the light, amplify it, become the sole source of illumination in the room.

Patrick hits four wrong notes and snaps the E string on his guitar, so visceral is his need to wrap his hand around _something_.

If that bastard _is_ a vampire, Patrick is going to stake him with his own bass neck.

*

“Can I come in?” Pete asks from the threshold of Patrick’s hotel room. Actually, he’s maybe two feet back from the little brass bar that marks the carpet in the hallway from the identical carpet in the room. This is suspicious.

“Why do you need me to invite you in?” Patrick counter-questions, convinced that a career in law enforcement is an inevitability with his powers of deduction.

Pete, an asshole, raises one shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t _need_ you to do anything. It’s basic courtesy. I use that sometimes.”

This is patently untrue. Just yesterday, Pete washed and dried his underwear in the tour bus sink and microwave respectively. Patrick is never going to get the smell of irradiated pubic hair out of his nose. But, like an idiot, he stands to the side. “Oh, you sure do,” and, because he’s not sure of the protocol, he continues, “I, uh — I issue you formal invitation to cross the threshold.”

The look that Pete gives him is entirely unfair; a look that suggests that Patrick is a ridiculous little man to be indulged. Still, he steps inside, shrugs out of his hoodie and immediately heads for the bathroom. “Need a shower, mine’s acting up, is that okay?”

It would be unreasonable for Patrick to say no.

Patrick has already showered. Dressed in fleece-lined sleep pants and a Michael Jackson shirt, he contemplates the air conditioning controls on the wall like they can distract him from the high-speed friction burn of Thoughts He Does Not Want to Have. It’s not like he can _complain_ , he reminds himself, it’s not like he had specific plans for the evening, beyond masturbating furiously to the thought of Pete’s teeth on his neck.

God, Patrick is a terrible, _horrible_ person.

So, Pete is in the shower and Patrick is lying on the bed. He reminds himself that Pete has a bed in a room, maybe ten feet down the hallway of this Best Western hotel somewhere between Michigan and Missouri. It would take no effort at all to retrieve the key card from Pete’s abandoned hoodie and take it over for an hour or so. There is no reason whatsoever for him to lie on the beige comforter in this beige room, staring at the off-white ceiling and wondering precisely how many levels of hell he might skip if he starts stroking himself off whilst Pete showers in the next room.

(Thinking about Pete showering does nothing but make the situation worse.)

See, the thing is, Patrick has been hard since they left the stage. Sure, he could have slipped away and bought himself the relief of a sad, lonely little orgasm rubbed out in a single occupancy bathroom stall. And there was the opportunity to steal away to his bunk somewhere between the green room and this, the beige room, to rub himself into the sheets until the air smelled of salt and sweat. But he didn’t.

And the only logical explanation is that Pete is a vampire and Patrick is under his thrall.

Don’t laugh at him. He’s thought about this endlessly since Pete disappeared from the hotel a week ago and came back with a hickey like a throat punch and a sudden aversion to sunlight. Of all the sexually transmitted diseases that Patrick imagined Pete may one day pick up — and, honestly, the odds have been as high as the number of potential donors — vampirism was not one of them. He shakes his head and considers the way his pulse echoes through his fingers, toes and down into the base of his cock. He can feel it twitching with his heartbeat; a metronome keeping a pornographic rhythm of all of the inappropriate thoughts he should not be having about Pete biting into his neck.

The bathroom door clicks, light spooling across the floor and sending the shadows of the streetlights running scared. Patrick is not being hysterical; Pete’s shadow _definitely_ appears to have horns. His heart rate picks up, drops, probably stops altogether, arrhythmia a worrying side effect of a crush he’s lost all control over.

“You still up?” asks Pete, dressed only in an inappropriately small towel and indelible ink, rubbing absently at the back of his neck. Patrick has seen the bartskull before — God, _everyone_ has seen the damn bartskull — but he’s never seen it wet, dripping diamonds from Pete’s jaw line to run across the smooth, shaved planes of his stomach, collecting collateral at the points of his hip bones and following the triangular rush of his groin down into the cotton of his towel. Patrick reminds himself that Pete has eyes, thank you, and forces his own up. But then, he sees the teeth.

Every part of him is clammy, somehow simultaneously fevered and chilled. Pete is a beautiful paradox and Patrick wants. Patrick wants.

Patrick _wants_. “You should definitely bite me.”

As far as hitting on his best friend goes, it’s got the basics but lacks a certain _je nais se quois_. Still, if this is the hill Patrick has chosen to die on, he will go down with this ship or, well, _something_. Honestly, he’s having trouble forming thoughts in complete sentences right now. Pete blinks at him. “Are you — touching your dick?”

And Patrick wants to point out he can’t help it. Pete’s got these sexy teeth and endless eyes and that — that _mouth_. Honestly, right now it would be a miracle if Patrick _didn’t_ have a hand around his cock, stroking his palm along the tight, hard length of it through his pajamas. His dick feels fevered, dissociated from the rest of him and burning up, tight and red. Fuck, but Patrick has never been this turned on in his _life_.

“Would you,” he rasps, breathless, lungs contracting in and out with his pulse — he will come in his pants or asphyxiate and Pete will be responsible either way, “like me to touch yours, too? Because I will. _If_ you bite me.”

Patrick must blink. Or pass out. Or possibly suffer an aneurysm, because one second Pete is standing in the doorframe of the bathroom, lounging into it with his tattoos on display and this thoughtful smile flirting at the corners of his mouth (his _mouth_ ) and the next he’s on the bed, thighs bracketing Patrick’s and eyes more burnt-dark amber than whisky-gold. Patrick’s pants feel damp with pre-come, sticky-wet and uncomfortable.

He makes a sound — half euphoric, half terrified — it slips from his throat without permission and scars the air between them as Pete stares down at him, and slowly, deliberately and with precise purpose, rests a hand on the knot of his towel. “It’s _very_ important,” he says, and his voice sounds like gravel and honey and slow, deliberate _teeth_ , “that you tell me this is what you want.”

Patrick retains all of the necessary motor skills to move his lips around two syllables and nothing more, he is obliterated, a puddle of Patrick-ness in the middle of a budget chain hotel bed sinking down through fabric and springs and waiting to be reshaped into something new. He doesn’t close his eyes. “Bite me.”

Still smiling, eyes still endless, bottomless and utterly dark, Pete lowers his head and, gently, softly, grazes his teeth along the line of Patrick’s jaw, ear to chin. He pauses, nips ecstatic heat into the soft flesh directly beneath and then swallows Patrick’s gasp on a searing, blood-deep kiss. Copper-salt and cinnamon, the taste of him floods Patrick’s tongue, rolls glorious over the soft, wet depths of Patrick’s mouth, consuming him entirely. Patrick is burning up, dying, grasping into the sheets and grinding up, caught between desperation and loose-limbed compliance. There’s no need for Patrick to kiss anyone else, ever again. His need for touch has been absorbed by Pete, sated by Pete, _owned_ by Pete. He bares his throat and sighs.

Against his ear, Pete breathes, “Take off your shirt.”

Seeing no reason whatsoever to refuse, Patrick does just that.

Patrick could list on one hand the number of people that have seen him shirtless since graduation brought an end to mandatory communal locker rooms. He’s aware that he’s not the vision of glorious litheness posed by Pete, that he’s soft and rounded in places he’d rather be flat and firm, that he’s lightly fuzzed with red-gold hair that catches the glow of the lamp beside them. He knows he’s pale, the kind of pale that shows bruises and blood, all blue beneath the surface, a web of purplish veins tracing intricate at the delicate indents of his inner elbows. Beneath him, the sheets warm with his body heat. Above him, Pete licks his lips and grins, those teeth catching the light like they did on the stage, canines threatening and utterly, perfectly lovely. Patrick doesn’t feel self-conscious at all.

“I’m going to bite you,” he declares, as though it’s only just occurring to him. “And you’re going to like it.”

This is the part where Patrick comes to his senses. This is the part where he knocks Pete off him like a human-sized imagining of Buckaroo. This is the part where... Patrick makes a noise he can only describe as _slutty_ and arches every carnal desire into his hips against Pete’s.

Fingers splayed above his heart, Pete considers him like a feast, head cocked, deciding precisely where to start. When he begins, it’s not aggressive, he doesn’t fall on Patrick like a predator but instead smooths over him, silky, like butter, his lips running soft and lush from Patrick’s ear to his throat to the tingling hum of his left nipple. “Here?” he hums, and Patrick groans, resonant and from the depths of his chest like a true vocalist. Pete snickers. “Yeah, here.”

He bites.

Soft at first, teeth barely pushing into the give of Patrick’s skin. Beneath him, Patrick moans, he writhes and he pleads with every non-verbal cue that he has for more, God, _please more_. He leans up, pushes his chest, damp with sweat and faintest coppered tang of Pete’s spit, like he can drive himself onto the threat of those teeth. Pete gives, harder now, beautiful, glorious bursts of brilliant pleasure-pain as his teeth catch, as he finds the fleshy fullness of Patrick’s chest, of the hum of blood beneath the surface, as he sucks, bites, licks into the meat of him, into the skin and nerves and aching completion. Patrick cries out, stuttered thick, a throat lodged full of words he can’t say because his mouth no longer functions, cut off from his brain, reduced to desperate, breathless animal sounds.

Pete pulls off. Patrick whines.

“You’re really into this, aren’t you?” Pete laughs, throaty-dark and smooth, bitter coffee, darker chocolate, smoky-rich and decadent, his fingertip tracing the bruise-dark lines of his dental records scarred into Patrick’s skin.

The riposte is lost somewhere between Patrick’s brain and his cock. Patrick is learning that the two are linked intrinsically by nerves and veins in such a way that one must control the other. An inelegant sound is torn from his throat instead as Pete loosens the towel around his waist and drops it to the mattress.

Patrick, like everyone else with an internet connection, has seen Pete’s cock. He’s seen it in more scenarios than most, beyond ill-advised dick pics posted to the wrong people. He’s seen it in venues and vans, in bathrooms and basements, flashes of skin and dark, shaved-short pubic hair. But Patrick has seen it as something removed, ‘Pete’s dick’ and ‘Pete’ entirely separate entities not to be linked and not to be thought of together. Now, with his pulse in his ears and his own dull, dark erection straining urgent under pajama pants between them, Patrick wonders if he’s allowed to look.

“Go ahead,” Pete assures him, around those teeth. Dimly, Patrick wonders if telepathy is a vampire thing, then promptly forgets how to think as his eyes slide lower.

There’s a thick, dark cock where once there was a regulation white cotton towel. Patrick’s entire life is measured in three second increments; the length of time required to breath in, then out. His eyes are greedy, hungry. His limbs don’t work. He is unset Jell-O seeping out and staining the sheets with stickiness. Between the gold of Pete’s thighs, his dull, red dick twitches.

There are hands at Patrick’s waist, strong hands, hands with blunt, deft fingers that twist into the band of his pants. Patrick, barely aware, raises his hips, lets the fleece slip down under the ghost-pale of his thighs, exposing his own flushed, furious dick. The tip is cherry-red, slicked wet and aching, humming with its own heartbeat as Pete presses his mouth to the crease where thigh meets groin and sucks a bruise that echoes the shape of his mouth.

They’ve never gone this far. This isn’t almost-kisses on the necks of best friends, not under sleeping bag considerations in the back of a van that smells of Cheetos and boy-sweat. It’s gone so far beyond speculation across a stage illuminated with hope and maybe and possibility. Pete licks through the brackish curl of Patrick’s rose gold pubic hair and sinks his teeth into his thigh like punctuation, like he wants to leave a mark to come back to. Against the mattress, Patrick feels the blooming bruise on every inch of exposed skin.

Next, Pete’s mouth finds his hip bone, molds to the shape of it under the soft swell of cream-pale flesh. Patrick jolts, stung-sharp, a dangerously high voltage ricocheting between his hip and his aching, wanting prick. Pete leaves the shape of his teeth behind in rose-dark red, the blooming flush of a hickey between upper and lower incisors. He bites a little harder into the opposite hip, breaks the top layers of skin and leaves sticky, dark bruises behind, the threat of blood pooling barely beneath the surface. Patrick touches with a tingling fingertip, feels the dull echo of pain and cooling spit. His dick twitches, pre-come sliding slow along the length of him.

Pete continues, each bite precise, each sweet-wet pull of his lips against the unmarred canvas of Patrick’s skin drawn with artistic flair. Pete, it turns out, really has a knack for this. Patrick’s thoughts are liquid, draining from his brain to his cock with the flow of his blood.

Patrick is leaking like he’s on tap, his cock aching, throbbing, the shaft as hot and tight as sunburn, the tip as wet and tender as an open wound. “Pretty boy,” says Pete, wet, pink tongue chasing over the mark he’s bitten to Patrick’s collarbone. “Roll over for me.”

The pressure of the mattress, of the sheets and comforter, against the pulsing heat of Patrick’s prick is almost too much. He groans into the pillows, tastes the desperation at the back of his tongue. “Shh,” Pete soothes, the solid weight of him braced over Patrick’s thighs. “Just relax.”

Then he bites into the ticklish sinew at the back of Patrick’s neck. Patrick can taste it, can feel it in his throat, the overwhelming urge to cry out at the intensity of it. But Pete has already moved, another bruise sucked to his shoulder blade, a precise, wonderful mark for each notch of his spine. Pete is starving for him, greedy, glutting himself richly on each mouthful he takes between his teeth. There is nothing between them, no skin or sweat or cheap pretense that this is nothing more than friendship.

The body is made of nerves and reactions, chemicals exploding together in interesting ways to bring about motion and thought. Patrick has lost all of this. He is one string of sensation pulsing between the base of his skull and the tip of his cock and nothing more. Useless, heavy limbs hang either side of him, his mouth fit for nothing beyond faint, whimpering moans. He imagines, as much as he is capable of forming speculative thought, that he can feel those canines getting sharper on each bite, piercing, bringing brilliant points of crimson to the surface and smoothed away under the sweep of Pete’s pink tongue.

This is definitely mythical thrall, there is no other explanation for why he lies, lax and lethargic, as Pete bites into the underside of his left ass cheek. Patrick feels raw from his shoulders to his thighs, he’ll wear these bruises tomorrow, feel them every time he moves, with each swing of his guitar and shift of his hips. But no one will see, carefully concealed under his clothes, a secret he shares with Pete. He cannot _wait_.

After half a decade of imagining, of _refusing_ to imagine, Patrick can honestly say this isn’t what he thought about late at night and touching himself illicitly. This is more, better, _perfect_.

And, as Pete opens him up, swipes his tongue across the tight desperation of Patrick’s twitching hole, as he punctuates it with a bite to the very base of Patrick’s spine, as he sinks his teeth into bone and skin and _nerves_ , Patrick loses control entirely. He comes, aching endless heat, thick and white and utterly blissful against the comforter between his legs. He sees it; amethyst, crimson, glittering gold, synesthesia swirling starlight across his vision. He tastes it, salt and cinnamon like Pete’s kiss, flooding his mouth around the copper brightness of a bitten lip. It pulses through him, from his crown to his toes and into the shuddering length of his throbbing cock, his fingers aching as they twist into the sheets, convinced he needs to grab and hold to remain on this plane of existence.

Against the bleach-wash scent of hotel bed sheets, somewhere in Missouri or Michigan, Patrick experiences the most intensely physical orgasm of his life so far.

*

He doesn’t recover so much as come around. Like waking up, like regaining consciousness, like being born again. He blinks and sees the ceiling, blinks again and sees the burnt sugar of Pete’s eyes, blinks a final time and sees darkness but tastes Pete’s kiss against his mouth.

“Welcome back,” says Pete softly. “You good?”

Patrick opens his mouth and croaks, clears his throat and tries again, finds purchase between his voice box, tongue and teeth and manages this: “I — yeah.”

Without looking, Patrick suspects that his entire body is a single smudge of blood-dark bruising between his shoulders, hips and thighs. He aches, but fantastically, touches his throat and expects it to come away wet with blood. His fingertips are dry. Clean. He says, “Hmm,” and looks to Pete for an explanation.

“I didn’t break the skin,” Pete whispers, on his knees at Patrick’s side with sweat-shiny chest and a soft, limp dick. There’s something under Patrick’s hip, the cooling evidence of Pete’s orgasm smeared against the sheets. “I — you said you trusted me.”

There are a lot of thoughts that Patrick would like to deal with right now, and even more he doesn’t want to consider until he’s put a good night’s sleep and possibly several hundred miles between now and then. He knows this; that his heart has shifted, a loose bolt made perfect under the weight of Pete’s hands on his skin, by the way his mouth quirks up at the corners and his eyes glitter amber under his bangs. But, this is Halloween and Pete has been acting weird and there’s one thing he’d like to clear up before he agrees to spend the night, unconscious and vulnerable, in the bed with him.

“I do trust you,” he admits, and finds he likes the truth of it against his tongue. “But…”

“But?” Pete prompts, fingertips touching the boldest bruise above Patrick’s quivering heart.

Patrick takes a deep breath and screws his courage to the sticking place. “Okay, I know this sounds weird, but are you, like, a _vampire_? I — if you are, it’s okay. I think. We can find a way to make it work but there’s the whole sleeping during daylight thing, the garlic, the — oh God, the _teeth_ —”

Patrick can’t talk anymore. Not because he’s run out of supposition, oh no, but because it’s impossible to hear himself over the bright, bold, brilliant burst of Pete’s uncontrollable snort of laughter. Pete laughs. He laughs until he’s weak and his eyes are streaming, until he’s leaning weakly against Patrick on the comforter. Until, with a haughty scowl, Patrick pulls away and reaches for his pants, unsure of where he’s going to go when this is _his_ hotel room. “It’s not that funny, man. Seriously. You made me watch Blade _eleven_ times!”

“A _vampire_?” Pete repeats, incredulity mingled charmingly with mirth as he reaches for Patrick’s arm and hauls him back to the bed. “Really? You’re gonna say that out loud and tell me it’s not funny?”

“It makes — _made_ — sense,” Patrick huffs. It doesn’t. It didn’t. He’s an idiot with a boner for David Boreanaz and a hyperactive imagination.

“Hey Pat,” Pete beckons him closer; dangerous when he just used the name _Pat_. Patrick shifts towards him anyway. He immediately reconsiders when Pete, master of accents _not at all_ , continues like Count from Sesame Street, “I vant to suck your dick! _Blegh_!”

“Fuck you, asshole! Boyfriend or no, I will kick your ass soundly!”

“I think you’d rather pound it,” Pete wiggles his hips and pushes his fingers through Patrick’s hair, biting a kiss that leaves his lip swollen flushed and ticking with his pulse. “ _Boyfriend_ , though?”

“Yeah,” Patrick rubs his thumb over the black-dark bruise on his hip. “I don’t put out for just any creature of the night that happens by.”

“Hey. I love you, you know.”

And Patrick, who’s ached for half a decade to hear that out loud, murmurs back, “Yeah. I love you, too.”

“Do we need to talk about,” and Pete bites his lip, scrapes his fingers through his hair and gestures in a way that manages to include their penises and very little else, “ _this_?”

“Us?” Patrick clarifies; Pete nods. “In the morning. Can we — can we sleep?”

“Yeah,” Pete settles down and arranges himself against Patrick’s side, head on his shoulder and smelling of flat-iron scorched hair and hotel-issued shower gel. “I think we can.”

*

Alone in the silence of a two-in-the-morning tour bus, Pete stands at the microwave and waits for it to beep. In his hand, his Sidekick flashes; a message from Gerard, half a continent away.

_He actually asked you?????? For real and out loud?????_

Pete sighs and watches the stillness of Patrick’s bunk curtain. He imagines he can hear his heart beat. Maybe he can. _yeah. dont want to make a big deal out of it. things are going great. maybe if i make a wish…_

 _Be careful making wishes in the dark_ , Gerard advises him. The microwave beeps. Pete slides his ceramic coffee mug out — the kind from Starbucks with the rubberized lid and sippy cup hole designed to deliver oral scalds in minute quantities — and takes a long pull. It’s warm, body temperature in fact, thick and rich.

On the couch, Pete flicks on the TV and finds the Lost Boys, sends a shot of the screen to Gerard with the message _can you believe this shit?_

_LOL! This is not our culture._

Pete won’t sleep until dawn threatens to break the horizon into shards of glass and gold. He settles back under his blanket and drifts in and out of the movie.

He drains his drink quickly; it’s so much less enjoyable when it clots.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are amazing!
> 
> I can also be found on tumblr @sn1tchesandtalkers and don't forget to read the other Trick or Pete works!


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